


Into the Tide

by Verbana



Series: Tempting Fate [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Conflict of Interests, Druid Merlin (Merlin), Fate & Destiny, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic Revealed, Mutilation, Pining, Secret Identity, Sex Magic, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-03 22:14:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21186833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbana/pseuds/Verbana
Summary: "Fate will tie us together. But it doesn’t have us yet."When young druid Emrys attempts to flee his destiny, he soon loses everything, and falls into the company of a strange band of mercenaries led by the appealing and dangerous Artorius.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Violence, a graphic and disturbing scene of mutilation, and some suicidal thoughts

In the dim, smoky interior of the cave, Morgana’s eyes glowed liquid gold. The scent of burning spices was thick and cloying. Her skin shone with perspiration and she swayed, both hands on the stone altar. Her mouth fell open and a thin, breathless voice emerged, little more than a hiss but loud enough to fill the cave.

_“I see Emrys riding at the right hand of Pendragon, his power lighting the way for the king of the isles. He is Pendragon’s sword and shield. Kings crumble before them and the earth bleeds.”_

Three lines. Swift as a falcon’s dive. Sharp as the spines of the crags.

The cave of the seers surrounded them with cool silence. Only a single lamp of sheep fat gave off a yellowish light as it smoked and spat. Emrys had listened to the prophecy with his pendant in his hand, the braided bronze circlet his mother had given him. It was cold, then hot in his hand. Part of him feared it would descend into a molten mass. But Morgana’s words ceased and the prophecy drifted up to the ceiling of the cave, and huddled there above them like an evil cloud.

His pendant was still hard and solid in his hand, though slick with his sweat. Emrys couldn’t look at Morgana, emerged from the seer’s trance. Her breaths were shallow and harsh. She might be crying.

He felt the burn of bile in the back of his throat and swallowed against it. Would his people kill him for this vision? Perhaps they should. Although, with the vagaries of fate, he would probably survive with all his wits knocked out of him by their attack and therefore a mindless tool for their enemy. Or perhaps they would burn him, and then Pendragon would draw him back to life with some sort of dark art to serve his bidding.

“There is no escape from fate,” Emrys said woodenly. His voice was strange in his ears. A laugh rattled out of him, wild and shrill. “I’m no more powerful than any other druid. You or Iseldir could destroy me in the blink of an eye. A poor tool for a madman.”

Morgana drew in a shaky breath. “Prophecies are not always as straightforward as they may seem,” she argued weakly. “It could mean something completely different.”

“What other way can you interpret it?” Emrys demanded. “The right hand of Pendragon? His sword and shield? The earth bleeds…? I’m going to be an instrument for our enemy to wipe out our people.”

Sweat had broken out all over his body. It was beyond comprehension. Uther Pendragon, the butcher of Camelot who had slaughtered his family and friends would become the master Emrys served. Not willingly, certainly. He felt dizzy and sick.

“I have to go,” he told Morgana. “Thank you for Seeing for me.”

“You can’t run from it,” she said pushing away strands of hair clinging to her tear-damp face.

“I won’t,” he lied quietly.

It was already in him—this certainty that he couldn’t stay. Regardless, fate would find him in the end, but if he put many leagues between himself and Pendragon and the druids, perhaps he could avoid it for a time, give his people some years to prepare for kings crumbling and blood flowing from the earth.

More than that, his heart was beating as though he were a hare in an open field, not knowing where the shadow of the hawk would pass. He needed to _run, run, run_, and never stop.

He didn’t wait for the evening meal. He didn’t wait for the judgment of the council. Morgana would present her vision and they would decide how to interpret it. But he had already decided. He wrapped a few things in a woolen blanket: a spare tunic and breeches, a few turnips, a loaf of Nera’s hard bread, dusty hazelnuts from the storehouse, and an assortment of dried herbs for castings and potions. In his belt Emrys tucked the little blade he’d been given on his naming day. On his back, over his pack, he tied his birchwood bow.

Cunning his way out the encampment was no simple task. Emrys cast a glamor to make himself less noticeable and hurried to the edge of the circle of thatched huts. He’d just crossed the ward lines outside their settlement when he heard the shout. “Emrys!”

Freya leapt into his path. Her face was white as frost, reflecting his turmoil back to him. “Where are you going?”

He motioned for silence and led her into a thicket of holly where they were obscured. Hidden in the walls of the glossy leaves, he held her hands in his “A pilgrimage,” Emrys told her softly. “A journey I must take on my own.”

She shook her head, dark hair sweeping her shoulders. “You won’t return.”

He swallowed his sorrow hard and deep. “Not for some time, I expect.” His dreams of hand-fasting with her in the midsummer had drained into the dirt at their feet.

“Don’t go,” she whispered.

He couldn’t help pulling her close and folding her in an embrace. Her body was thin and light as a bird in his arms. He’d free her to fly into the cedars above. He inhaled the scent of their woody perfume in her hair. “I’m cursed,” Emrys murmured. “I must flee before you are all consumed.”

“Not cursed,” she breathed into his shoulder. Her fingers dug into his ribs. “I’d sense that.”

“Doomed then,” Emrys said, reluctantly pulling away from her. His hands pushed her arms down to her sides. “Morgana will tell you everything.”

“The prophecy?” Freya said, eyes wide and reddened. “She read your threads today?”

“It’s an ill tide,” he said. “But perhaps I can flee it for some time.”

“You’ll run straight into it,” she warned.

“Perhaps,” Emrys admitted, “but at least I’ll be far away from you all when it crashes down on me.” He stepped back firmly. “Goodbye Freya, Goddess be with you.”

She made a choked sound then managed to respond in a shaky voice, “Goodbye, Emrys.”

His last glimpse of his life in the druid encampment was Freya, dark and lovely and fading into the tangled shadows of the holly thicket.

Deer trails crossed the forest leading to water or shelter. Emrys spent the first night in the hollow of a great oak. The ground beneath it had a thick cushion of leaves and debris. He removed the worst of the twigs and acorns and laid out his bedroll and blanket. Many-lobed leaves blocked the sinking light and soon the entire forest bathed in darkness. Other than the occasional spider and ant, no one disturbed him.

However, hours before the sunrise, rain began to patter on the leaves above. His nose filled with the scent of wet plants and earth. The density of the tree protected him from the worst of the downpour, and he pulled his blanket close to avoid the rest.

By the time the sun lit his little grove, the rain showed no signs of ceasing. Emrys ate a few mouthfuls of dense bread, wrapped up his pack and tied it under his cloak, and left the shield of the oak. A deer trail led him down to a stream where he filled his flask and murmured a cantrip to clean the water. Then he followed the stream, knowing it would lead him to the great river and then the sea road.

His imagined destination was the harbor of Hen Geneth, a four-day journey to the south. But he’d only been there a handful of times for trading supplies and he had no idea how to buy passage on a ship. If he couldn’t get a on a sea vessel, he’d buy a horse and ride as far south as possible, then ferry east across the channel.

The rain fell steadily throughout the morning. It dripped off the trees and sparkled on the wild blueberry bushes and the climbing briars. It soaked his breeches every time he brushed through them. Soon even his hardened leather boots were squishing against his feet. Emrys began to shiver and walked faster. The tress protected him from the force of the rain, but they also kept him enclosed in cool shadows. He spoke the words of a spell to keep himself warm and dry, but it took too much energy to maintain it and he soon had to abandon the effort in the onslaught of the rain.

When he finally reached the torrent of the river, near the end of the first day, the rain had softened to a mist, but every part of him was wet. His heavy woolen cloak was a lead weight on his back. Emrys found a hollow under the roots of a tree, dangling from a time when part of the bank had caved away. The river’s course had changed since that time, leaving mosses and ferns to colonize the earth there. He tucked himself under the roots where dry soil remained.

Night closed in. Emrys ate more of the bread, now turning soggy, and huddled up in the hollow, trying to sleep. He cast a drying invocation and his cloak and breeches gradually lost the chilling weight of their moisture. Then he closed his eyes and drifted between the sweet memories of picking summer berries with Freya and flashes of horror from his woven future. In his dreams, Uther enslaved his mind and made him a vessel for ancient magic, changed him into a great and terrible bolt that the king could aim as he chose.

Waking restless and drained, Emrys rose from his dirt bed and started again. The rain no longer descended, but sat in thick gray clouds, waiting to fall. He followed the river south until the forest thinned and he came to a muddy road and the bridge of Cwyrdein. The posts were carved in the faces of grinning imps. Someone had tied the length of a frayed green ribbon to one and it waved limply in the breeze.

He walked alongside the road, not wanting to cover his boots in mud. Gradually the trees fell away and the sloping, rocky expanses opened before him. The moors here stretched as far as he could see—just beginning to green with the spring rain. He encountered few folk along the way: a merchant with a pack on his back taller than him, a pair of women carrying baskets of cut reeds, a messenger with a lord’s colors on his back thundering through the mud and flinging up the filth of the road on his way.

The sun emerged in the afternoon and it was a pleasant weight on him. He loosened his cloak, pulling off his hood. The wind raked its fingers through his thick hair. He cut through the rocky rolls of the moorland to save time, but found himself weaving between thick gorse and loose stones. Finally, he made camp in the relative shelter of a rock face that blocked most of the wind. With a fire spell, Emrys set an old dry gorse bush to burn and used the meager coals to partially cook two turnips wrapped in leaves.

He slept easily that night, surrounded by the wild magic of the moor. Morning woke him with the chill numbing his face and fingers. Emrys clumsily cracked open the hazelnuts and ate the hard kernels inside. Absently, he rubbed half a shell on his cloak and brought it to a shining burnish. He gathered up the fragments of the shells and slipped them into a pocket.

Far in the distance, he saw the curve of the road stretching along the sea cliffs. It took him most of the day to reach it, finding his way through a maze of gorse and hawthorn, skirting a peat bog, and clambering over great stones. The sharp brine of the sea began to fill his breaths, and then he clambered up a bank to the rutted surface of the road. The great blue sea spread below, spitting wreaths of white foam from its rumpled surface. The wind whipped his hair back and sent his cloak flying out behind him like wings.

The harbor was two more days on foot and he was nearly out of food. He pulled the nutshells out of his pocket and sprinkled them on the ground. Then he sat before them and whispered the words of the glamor. It was the strongest he could muster. The shells slowly melted, flattened, and hardened into polished discs of metal. He squeezed one between his fingers and felt the cool rigidity of the false coin. He already felt the effect of the magic, sucking the vitality from his bones. He cut the thread connecting him to the coins and willed them to stay in their form.

That task accomplished, he slipped them into his pocket again. As long as no one suspected him of being a druid, he might get away with it. He pulled his tunic up closer around his throat to cover the triskelion mark below his shoulder.

Before long, a cart approached. It was drawn by a mud-flecked horse and filled with a pile of nets streaked with algae. A bony child rode on the back in, gripping the edge of the cart for all he was worth. Emrys paid the driver one of his heavy coins and got a ride in the back beside the child. He had thick freckles and a reedy voice. But they didn’t speak much. Emrys was weary with the effort of his spell and his days of walking. His eyes repeatedly drifted closed despite the jerking, jolting motion of the cart on the deep ruts and stones of the road.

By nightfall they had reached the harbor: a collection of grayed shacks and weathered docks. Emrys asked everyone he could find about passage. Most were only fishing vessels, but the largest ship was leaving for the continent in two days’ time. The red-faced captain took one look at his enchanted coins and laughed in his face. “You think you’re the first druid to try to pull that? These coins are freshly minted, no nicks, chips, or scratches. I know really money.”

Emrys’ stomach turned over. He slid the coins back into his pouch, face burning.

The captain snorted. “You’re too young to be on the run. Go back to your family.”

“I cannot,” Emrys said, wondering what other choice he had. There were no horses for sale here. The road to the southern port was another week’s walk at least.

The captain looked at him appraisingly. “Know any spells for fair weather?” he asked. “Anything to calm the wind and waves?”

Emrys nodded eagerly, although he did not. He could calm a raging fire and dispel a mist. Perhaps those incantations would work? Nonetheless, as long as he got on the ship, it was doubtful they would throw him off in the middle of the ocean. And if they did, it would simply be a boon for all of Albion. Unlikely that Pendragon would raise him from the bottom of the sea to do his bidding.

Out on the deck of the ship, feeling the movement of the waves under the flats of his boots, relief flooded over him. No bandits had waylaid him. No dragons had plucked him out of the sky and deposited him in Pendragon’s lap. He had walked from the forest to the sea, and now he was on his way to the distant lands of the continent. He would run to the farthest reaches—the golden deserts and feathered trees and white temples on the edges of the world.

They sailed south along the coast until they reached the port of Feradin and the sea channel. Fortunately, the first leg of their voyage was uneventful and the seas stayed relatively smooth, so Emrys was not asked to demonstrate his skills. Their ship stopped there to unload crates of raw wool and take on a cargo of grain bound for the continent.

Emrys didn’t want to leave the ship for fear that his fate would snatch him here. But the captain insisted he help the crew carrying the wool. Emrys partnered up with an oily sailor with the blue tattoos of the northern tribes on his arms. The wool wasn’t terribly heavy, but the wood of the crates scratched his hands and he couldn’t see well over its height.

After sweating and straining to get the shipment of grain on board, the crew went off to fill the local public houses. Emrys stayed on board the ship, unwilling to risk any incidents on land that might result in delays or detainment. He had a dingy, thin pallet in a corner of the crews’ room to call his own, but it was better bedding than he’d enjoyed on his trek thus far. He slept well those nights on the ship, lulled by the scent of the salt air, the creaking of the planks, and the rocking of the water.

This particular night, he woke to the sound of footsteps squeaking the boards. He had barely time to raise his head before they were on him. One seized his wrists and held them down, jamming his knee into his gut. The other shoved a wad of cloth in his mouth, striking the back of his head into the floor with bruising force. Then they bound his hands and forced him to his feet.

He couldn’t even struggle, he was so stunned. He tottered on his feet, vision swimming. He felt the one at his back loop a length of twisted fabric over his head to bind the gag in his mouth. _They’re afraid I’ll speak spells_, he realized.

And in that moment, the terrified rage of a trapped fox filled him. He dropped his head slightly, then jerked it back, striking the face of the man behind him. Emrys felt his nose crack, heard him shout and curse. He worked his tongue frantically to push the gag out of his mouth. And when it slipped over his chin, he shouted the words.

The man at his front burst into flames. Small flames—Emrys was shaken and unfocused—but his shirt flared and smoldered. He slapped at it, screaming. Emrys turned quickly to the man with the bleeding nose. The man kicked him in the knee, but as Emrys went down, he screamed the spell at him and saw fire streak up the sides of his coat. The man batted and yanked at it, spewing curses.

His knee raged with pain, but Emrys had to run. He gathered himself to his feet and staggered out of the room onto the deck. A third man was waiting for him there. The captain.

He sighed deeply and struck Emrys hard. His fist was like a thunderclap. Emrys smashed into the side of the ship and sank into a scorched, throbbing darkness.

The smell of hot metal woke him. A windowless room. A fireplace with glowing coals. Four men that he could see. Two wore the burnt clothes that testified to his handiwork. They did not look particularly damaged otherwise, Emrys thought dismally. Perhaps it was better they were not, now that he was in their power. A bearded man leaned against the table, arms crossed before him. A burly man stood by the fire, heating an iron rod.

Ropes cut into Emrys’ skin, over his shoulders, chest, and belly, binding him to the chair. His hands and feet were also bound. A tight gag burned the corners of his mouth, blocking his tongue. They had stripped him of all garments, even the pendant his mother gave him. A pewter bowl rested on his lap, cold and strange.

The man with a thin beard gave him a long, almost melancholy look. “Shall we give him a pull of whisky first?”

“Nah, he’ll just chuck it up soon enough,” the man heating the iron said.

“Lemme do it,” the man with the swollen nose said. “My knife is the sharpest.”

“Then I’ll use your knife,” the bearded man responded. “Needs a steady hand, this work. And you’ve already bungled enough.”

The back of Emrys’ head blazed with pain. His knee was a dull fire. His cheek throbbed from the captain’s blow. The captain was not here, but he had brought him here, Emrys knew, sold him to these men. Despair sunk deep in him. He only hoped they’d kill him and spare him his destiny, but it was unlikely.

“All right, let’s make it quick,” the bearded man said. He wiped off the edges of the blade with the bottom of his shirt, then went to the fire and bent to pass the it through the flames. “I’ll cut you as swiftly as I can and the stiller you stay, the sooner it ends,” he said, facing him.

Emrys blinked hard, eyes hot on the knife in his hand.

He moved close to Emrys, tilted his head back with his hand. His fingers stroked the line of the cloth splitting his lips. “If you shake or judder, this knife could go through your throat. And then you’d be no use to us at all. Perhaps you think you’d rather die than live without the gift of speech. But it is only one gift, my young friend. You have many more to give the world. And we’ve no buyers for witchy druids who might spit curses at them any hour of the day.”

His fingers worked at the back of his head, loosening the gag. Emrys thought for a moment of fighting again, making a desperate attempt at a spell when the gag came free, but the man immediately shoved his fingers in his mouth, making him cough and choke. He caught his tongue between his thumb and forefinger, stretching it long.

“There, my boy, keep your gob open. It will be swift.”

He did not lie. He took no joy the pain. Emrys even saw sympathy in his eyes as he sliced through the soft flesh. Two men held his head with bruising fingers, forcing his skull back and his jaws open. Emrys shook and sweated and moaned. Tears streamed down his face.

He was not brave. He could have forced the blade into the back of his throat, just as he could have jumped off the side of the ship or over the edge of the sea cliffs. Emrys had told himself fate would find a way to interfere if he tried to kill himself. But perhaps it was the power of fate that unmanned him, made his heart trembled when he looked at the sea below. Perhaps it made him stay as still as he could while a man cut off his tongue.

Yet that was not the end. While Emrys choked on blood and pain, the man with the red-hot iron came to him and they pried his mouth open again to sear the stump. The smell of cooking meat made his stomach lurch and, when the iron was gone, he spilled blood and bile in the bowl on his lap.

After that, Emrys passed in and out of the world, weeping and screaming wordlessly. They untied him at some point and dragged him to another place. There was a scattering of dirty straw and the stench of night soil. Emrys flopped onto his back in the straw as soon as they released him, no strength or will left in his battered body.

Vaguely, through the morass of pain drowning him, he heard his captor say, “Look after him.”

Moments or hours later, a woman’s face appeared above him. Through the blur of tears and panic, he saw she was not young. Her hair was greasy and flat on her head. There were bruises on her throat and jaw. She murmured something Emrys couldn’t understand. Emrys clenched his eyes shut and sobbed silently.

Sometime later, she touched his hair softly to get his attention again. She wanted him to drink water, but his mouth was a swollen mass of anguish. Emrys couldn’t even lift his head without feeling blackness sweep over him.

Patiently, firmly, she worked at him, refusing to let him die in peace. She used a bit of cloth to drip water and broth down his throat. She cleaned the blood off his chin and neck and wiped the salty crust of tears and mucus off his face. She crooned wordless tunes to him and stroked his hair so softly.

The next day, Emrys found he could stand and dress himself. They had thrown his clothes in the straw beside him—except for the pendant, of course. He could walk to the refuse bucket in the corner of the room, the source of the smell.

He was startled to find two other occupants of the room, hidden in the shadows. They were a pair of young boys, no more than thirteen and fifteen, huddled close together. Their wide eyes tracked him, but they made no effort to speak. Perhaps they had all lost their tongues in this reeking pit of despair.

Emrys wallowed through a swamp of misery. Magic would never again flow from his words and his knowledge. He’d lost his connection to the only remaining joy in his life.

And yet, he continued to live. He could pour spoonfuls of warm broth into his mouth and tolerate the pain, but if the spoon touched his burnt tongue stump, it wrung awful agony through every nerve

Emrys tried to communicate with the woman using hand signals, but she just shook her head. It was too dark most of the time anyway. Only a little light filtered in through the grate near the ceiling when the sun was high.

On the third day, the door opened. The men bound their hands in front of them—except for the woman—and all of them were dragged out into the darkness, confused and stumbling. It was hours before dawn, judging by the darkness and the quiet of the streets. Their captors hurried them down the foggy lanes and out of the city.

The slavers had two worn horses that they took turns riding, and there was always one at the backs of the captives with a crossbow on his knee, waiting for someone to bolt. Their prisoners, were forced to walk between the four slavers.

They soon left the road and they herded them across the countryside. It was drier here and their feet kicked up puffs of dust that settled on their clothes and faces. Emrys’ knee still troubled him, but he was almost grateful. It distracted him from the pain and emptiness in his mouth.

The sun warmed their stiff limbs at first, then it began to cook them alive. By noon, Emrys was barely able to stay on his feet. The woman propped him up. She used her hands to support and guide him when he stumbled. They both reeked of from sweat and days of not washing, but he barely noticed.

Finally, when the sun had reached its zenith, they were allowed a rest and a mouthful of water. The two boys seemed to be enduring well enough. They looked like sturdy country lads—probably brothers. They spoke quietly to each other from time to time but Emrys could only make out complaints about the soreness of their wrists in the confines of the rope, and observations of familiar landmarks.

The woman still didn’t speak, but she obeyed the commands of their captors. She brought them ale from one horse’s pack and cut hunks of cheese for them to eat. One of the men pinched off a slice of his and offered it to her. When she moved to take it, he ran a hand up her leg and grinned, lifting her skirt past her knee. Her blank expression didn’t change. She ate the cheese and waited for the next command.

They next crossed farmland. A man plowing his field stopped to watch them. Four coarsely dressed, heavily armed men herding a woman and three men with bound hands…what could he think they were? But he just put his head down and went back to work, urging his ox on.

A grove of elm trees stretched ahead of them and Emrys could only think of the brief pleasure of shade that awaited them. How quickly his needs had shifted. The pain in his knee rolled through him with every step and he was limping heavily to compensate, much to the disgust of his captors. The woman held his upper arm, trying to compensate for his jerky gait, but it just slowed them both down.

“Fucking hell,” the burly man spat. “We’ll not reach the dells by nightfall at this rate.”

“Put him on your horse,” the bearded man said. “He can take your turn.”

“Edgar should give his turn,” the burly man said. “He’s the one that kicked the lad’s leg in the first place.”

“He set Finn on fire!” Edgar protested. “And then he lit me up too! My best coat…”

The woman squeezed his upper arm and, for a moment, Emrys thought she might be congratulating him. But then he followed her gaze to the far-off grove of birch trees. A pair of riders had appeared. Then another pair and another. Emrys counted six men on horseback and they were urging their mounts into a fast canter, fanning out across the plain.

The bearded man saw them then and let out a sharp whistle. All the men went for their weapons. Two leveled their crossbows and the others unsheathed their swords. But the riders were sweeping in at a hard gallop now, approaching like harriers on the wind. They separated into a half-circle, flying to opposite sides, making difficult targets and closing in—a flying trap.

These were professionally trained military men. Emrys recognized the maneuver from the raid on his village when Uther’s soldiers had herded all the fleeing and fighting folk into a terrified cluster and cut them down. He’d watched from the hillside above, paralyzed and reeling with horror.

Now it felt like a liberation. He had no control. Not an ounce of power. If they killed him, his story was done. Another Emrys could help Pendragon. If they captured him and took him to Pendragon, he’d be useless without his tongue to shape the words of magic.

The soldiers roared toward them, their horses kicking up chunks of turf. The men with crossbows spun trying to track them, fired and missed. In an instant, the riders were on them, striking them down.

The bearded man got a long cut across his chest, pitched to the ground, and didn’t get up. Edgar of the burnt coat fell with a deep slash through his face. Finn tried to flee and got an arrow in the back from a soldier’s bow. The burly man put up the most fight, but he was quickly outnumbered and a shaggy-headed soldier put a sword through his shoulder. He collapsed, swearing at them in the filthiest terms.

The soldiers moved to surround them. The biggest one had close-cut pale hair. “Slavers. You were right, Wain.”

“Good,” the shaggy one said. “Now I feel less guilty about killing them.”

The fair-haired man on the bay gelding said, “Release them from their bonds.”

Two riders dismounted and used knives to cut them free. The two boys broke out in wide grins, but Emrys was not so hopeful.

“Where were you taken from?” the fair-haired leader asked them.

“Hirta Ford,” one of the boys said. “Not two days ride from here. We know this countryside.”

“Good,” the leader said. “And the rest of you?”

The woman said nothing. Emrys saw with shock that tears were slipping down her face.

“You have nothing to fear, lady,” one of the soldiers said. “We are Tor’s commandos. We do not rape or pillage. We’re honorable sell-swords, not bandits.”

“She doesn’t talk,” the older boy said. “She never talks. And that one can’t talk neither.”

The rider with the dark, close hair who had just cut Emrys’ bonds, cocked his head and looked at him. “Are you mute by choice or…?”

Emrys could feel his chest tightening. But there was nothing for it. He’d lost everything else. Why not his pride? He opened his mouth wide, saw the other man squint. Then he recoiled with a look of disgust.

“Cut and cauterized,” he growled.

The other soldier on the ground kicked the wounded slaver who was bleeding out on the grass. “You make more money off mutilated merchandise?”

The big man screamed and clutched at his sopping red shoulder. “Fuck you and your mother’s filthy cunt!”

The blond leader, Tor scowled down at him. “For taking folk from their homes and selling them like cattle, you will die.” He turned to the man closest. “Leo, finish him.”

The sell-sword complied, raising his sword and cutting off the slaver’s head in a clean strike. It rolled over once and lay on the ground beside him, one gummy eye staring at Emrys.

“You should have gotten information from him,” shaggy Wain said. “He might have told us where they were taking the slaves.”

“He wouldn’t have told us anything,” Tor said firmly. “A man like that would cut off his nose to spite his face. He said nothing when I gave the order. Didn’t even beg for his life.”

“I would have strung him up and tickled his feet with fire until he changed his mind,” Wain grumbled.

Leo made a face, which surprised Emrys. A squeamish sell-sword?

They led the captives over to the shady glen and gave them a moment to rest, bringing water and food from their saddlebags. Then the soldiers introduced themselves and questioned the former prisoners about their journey. They had strange, short names: Tor, Lance, El, Leo, Wain, and Percy. They were an unusual collection of men. Tor, Percy, and Leo were as fair as Danes while Wain and Lance favored the darker coloring of Celts, and El had the aspect of Moorish descent. But they all spoke Middle English with the same accent and there seemed no hierarchy amongst them besides naming Tor their leader. Even then, it seemed they had no hesitation in speaking plainly to him without fear of retribution.

The farm boys chatted easily with them, telling of how they had been snatched while bringing eggs to market, lured by the promise of a generous buyer to the dark house where they were imprisoned.

The woman beside Emrys pecked at her roll like a bird, still staring into the distance with rheumy eyes. Emrys couldn’t eat his at all. Tor watched him turn it over in his hands. Then he crouched down beside Emrys and took it from him. He poured a thin stream of water from his flask over the roll and mashed it with his fingers.

“Is this better?” he asked, handing it back to Emrys.

Emrys nodded and scraped off the edge of it with his teeth. It was soft enough that he didn’t need a tongue to turn it into his molars. He tipped his head back and let it slide down his throat.

Tor smiled at him, looking quietly pleased, and Emrys didn’t know why. But the simple ability to eat that roll, made him feel something. Without his magic, he was a hollowed shell, but he could eat a roll.

“Where do you want to go?” Tor asked him. “Can you draw a map in the dust here and tell us where you are from?”

Emrys shook his head, forcing tears back. He gestured with his hands to the world around and then shrugged to show his indecision.

“Can you write? Do you know Latin?”

Emrys dropped his head, shaking it again. Druids didn’t write words. They passed their wisdom on through the telling of stories and practiced memorization. He sometimes saw bulletins posted in the markets but had no understanding of the marks that covered them.

Tor nodded and looked to the woman beside him. “Is this your mother?”

Emrys shook his head.

“Your family? Did you know her before the slavers took you?”

When Emrys again signaled in the negative, Tor looked frustrated. “What shall we do with you two?”

The woman reached her hand out and touched his knee like a child petting a fearful hound, not knowing if it would bite her. She stroked her fingertips up the side of his thigh. He didn’t flinch away from her, but his body tensed. Emrys sensed everyone’s eyes on them.

“It isn’t necessary,” he told her. “We are here to free you and nothing more.”

The woman didn’t take that well. Her face crumpled with fear. She took both of his hands in hers and bowed her head, pleading.

“We’ll find a place for you,” he assured her. “Don’t worry.” He slipped out of her hold and stood, rejoining his men. The woman and Emrys both watched him go, knowing he held their fate in his hands.

Emrys listened to the mercenaries talk about returning the boys to their homestead near the ford and where they would go after. The big one, Percy wanted to bring Emrys and the woman back to the constables at the port. El argued that they’d end up beggars on the street in their condition. But there were few alternatives.

Without reaching a consensus, they decided to ride on. They set off for the ford. This time, the former captives shared horses with the fighters. Emrys rode behind the loud Wain while the woman clung to Percy and the boys mounted the horses taken from the dead slavers.

Wain informed him that they were working for a king, scouting for Saxon raiding parties along the coast. They’d been patrolling this area for the last week and had already taken out a score of raiders_. With six men?_ Emrys wanted to ask. But his lack of words didn’t deter his companion and he prattled on heartily, telling him all about their fellow riders and their leader “high-minded but steady old lad,” Tor, who he claimed had no equal with a blade.

They camped as the sun settled, bronzing the grass of the horizon. The men started a fire and roasted a brace of grouses. Warm ale was passed around. Tor brought Emrys a tin plate with a selection of soft meat and checked that Emrys could eat it. Emrys thanked him with a shy nod.

Tor was not the tallest or broadest of the other sell-swords. He was not as comely as Lance, or as charismatic as Wain, but he had a presence that commanded attention. You could pick him out as a leader immediately. He had the wheat-colored hair of the Gauls and eyes like a cloudless sky. He rode like a centaur and walked like a giant. But he did not lord over his men, and even fielded jests from them without censure.

Emrys watched him closely throughout the night, his profile flickering the light of the fire. He did not speak as much as the others, but his pale eyes were always sharp with concentration, listening to their stories of hunts and battles. Those eyes flicked to Emrys occasionally, met his stare, but never locked into it.

_Be good to me_, Emrys pleaded silently, _don’t throw me away_.

The woman must have had a similar thought, because in the middle of the night she crawled in close to Percy and in the morning, they found them curled together.

“We only slept!” Percy asserted in the face of his laughing companions. “She seemed frightened so I held her. God’s teeth, she’s old enough to be my mam!”

“All right,” Tor said. “We trust your virtue is preserved, Percy. Just be certain your hands stay outside of her skirts.”

The woman looked devastated when Percy told her to ride with another man, but she took a seat behind Lance obediently. This time, Tor motioned for Emrys to mount behind him. Emrys held his waist as carefully as he could, fingers hooked between the ties of his cuirass. Tor moved fluidly with the rhythm of the horse’s body while Emrys jolted into his back far too often, face falling into Tor’s fair hair. He smelled like the dried grass of the field and the salt of the sea.

No doubt, Emrys smelled much fouler. When they reached the wide banks for the river and stopped for a rest. Emrys motioned to it and mimed taking off his tunic.

“An excellent idea,” Wain said. “I’m as sweaty and rank as sausage in the sun. What do ya say, lads? A quick dip on a hot day?”

“A very quick dip,” Tor said.

Emrys was the first in, yanking off his boots and tunic and splashing through the thick weeds. The banks were muddy but the center of the river ran clear over polished stones. Behind a forest of tall reeds, Emrys pulled off his soaked britches. He splashed and scrubbed, washing away the filth of ten days on the run. The water—spring snow melt streaming from the mountains—raised gooseflesh on his skin and set his teeth to chattering in minutes.

He struggled back into his wet breeches and splashed back to the bank. Wain, Percy, and El did not share his modesty and were bathing openly, in naught but their skins, while Leo, Tor, and Lance kept watch on the high bank above. The two farm boys also splashed with naked abandon, joyous with the proximity to home. The woman was not in sight. Perhaps they had relegated her to another area to spare her eyes.

Wain looked up as Emrys approached and his eyebrows lifted high. “A druid,” he said, drawing the eyes of the others. Emrys’ hand flew to the three-pointed tattoo under his shoulder, covering it.

“That’s why they cut out his tongue,” El said, “so he can’t speak magic.”

Shivering and fighting back angry tears, Emrys stomped over to pick up his tunic and occupied himself with washing it in the water, back turned to them. The water darkened the cloth to the color of a stormy sky.

Tor stepped down beside him, put a hand on his bare back. Emrys turned his head to look at him. Tor had stripped to his breeches and his skin was pale and scored with scars. “You survived,” he said. “That is a victory.”

Then his hand fell from Emrys’ skin and he waded into the water. Behind him came Lance and Leo, relieved of their duty as the other three took watch. Emrys didn’t bother hiding his gaze, absorbing the slide of Tor’s muscles as he scrubbed his arms and back, the trickle of water from his sleek hair down the sides of his neck. He turned and met Emrys’ eyes once, face shining with water. His lips were reddened by the cold and his blue eyes were like the center of flames.

Then he looked away. Emrys wrung the water out of his tunic and put it over his head. The sun which had seemed so powerful all morning, now barely touched him. The breeze shook him like a leave.

He climbed the hill to where their horses were picketed. The woman sat near the saddle bags, twisting strands of her oily hair. Emrys gestured to the river, trying to convince her to bathe as well, but she just stared down at the limp waves of hair between her fingers.

“She hasn’t moved,” Percy said sadly, from his lookout position. “But she did eat a bit of dried halibut.”

Emrys wanted to reassure her, but he didn’t know how. So, he just crouched near her in his wet clothes and watched as the rest of their party made their way up the hill to join them.

Another hour’s ride down the river and they came to the ford and crossed. The horses’ hooves clacked against the wet stones and sent up little splashes. Farm plots stretched ahead of them fields just beginning to send up green shoots.

They reached the homestead well before sunset and a trio of rangy hounds raced out to greet them with a cacophony of warning yelps. A grizzled man came shortly behind them, pitchfork raised.

“Peace!” Tor shouted.

Then the two boys scrambled off their mounts and went to greet their father, weeping openly. The scene warmed Emrys at first and then he thought of his own people far across the plains and moors and forest. His sire and dam rested in shallow graves under ashy earth. The last person who loved him had said goodbye forever. Emrys struggled not to sag into Tor’s back.

The father thanked the sell-swords profusely and invited them to share his supper. Tor shook his head. “We will buy provisions from you, but we cannot steal your food.”

His horse did a little sidestep. Lance glanced at him with a questioning look.

“Do you have any need for extra hands?” Tor asked. “We have a woman and a lad with no home, taken by slavers. They do not speak, but they can work your land.”

A gasp choked Emrys. He could not be trapped on this farm, separated from any chance at flight.

The father looked them over. “I could board one, but not both. We’ve only the one cottage and it’s already tight. Give me the woman. Perhaps she has some skill in weaving and preserving. My wife passed at Solstice not three years ago and we’ve been sorely lacking her.”

“She is not to be molested,” Tor said firmly. “She has endured much and must be treated with care.”

“Yes, master,” the father said meekly. “I won’t harm her none.”

Tor turned his horse to face the woman, currently perched behind Lance. “Is this a suitable place for you? We will return when we are in the area and check that you are well.”

The woman looked frightened and unsure. Her hands were digging into Lance’s middle.

Emrys let go of Tor and slid off his horse. He walked to Lance and the woman, touched the edge of her skirt where it had draped over the horse’s flank. Then he lifted his hand to help her down.

She took it with trembling fingers and slid to the earth beside him. He wrapped his arms around her, heedless of her odor and the filth of her clothes. _Thank you for saving me_, he thought, trying to push the words into her heart. _Be safe and free_.

Her trembling stopped. She breathed deeply in his arms. Then, as they parted, a timid smile reached her face. She caressed his arm once, then dropped her hand. She turned from him and walked to where the farmer and his sons stood. She gave them a jerky bow and the farmer clasped her hand in both of his and held it, with a kindly expression.

Lance paid the man for a bag of carrots, mealy apples, eggs, and dried meat. The farmer gave them a flagon of ale for reward, and they left the homestead soon after.

As Emrys clung to Tor’s waist, Wain rode up beside us. “And then there was one,” he said with a rakish grin. “What shall we do with the druid?”

“There’re druids in Fenawedd Forest, I’ve heard,” Lance said.

Emrys made a panicked sound in his throat and shook his head fervently.

Tor’s head turned over his shoulder to eye him. “He doesn’t seem to want that.”

“Then what?” El demanded. “Are we to carry him around with us through the whole campaign?”

“No,” Tor said. “We’ll drop him off at the next village. Someone will have a place for him.”

Despair rolled over Emrys. He couldn’t be stranded in a tiny hamlet in Albion, only a week’s ride from Camelot. But how could he escape with no magic, no money, and no friends?

When they stopped for the night behind a windbreak of thick, gnarled hawthorn. Emrys sat with his arms wrapped around his knees. He felt more alone than he’d even been tramping through the forest by himself. He wondered morosely how he could end himself quickest. Perhaps if he attacked one of the sell-swords they would run him through... No, they’d probably just knock him down and leave him in the dust. He was no threat to them.

He slept on a saddle blanket on the hard ground. It smelled of horse, but it was warm and softer than the earth and rocks beneath. As he lay there, watching clouds pass over the stars, he thought of the woman and her attempts to ingratiate herself with the men. She had failed, but she was a woman with no place in a band of sell-swords. And she was too old to interest them much. But the way Tor looked at Emrys sometimes… Emrys wondered if he had a chance. It meant abandoning all dignity, but he had nothing else left.

Quietly, he crawled his way to the place where Tor had spread his bedroll, under a sagging hawthorn where his horse was tied. Tor lay on his side. His eyes flickered open as Emrys approached, and he tensed for a moment, hand reaching for the blade at his side.

Emrys stopped, heart beating wildly. Then he pushed his trembling muscles to keep moving and drew in close to Tor. He stretched his body alongside the warrior, folding his arms into the other man’s chest, and tucked his head into Tor’s neck.

For a moment, Tor lay stiffly against him. Then one arm slid over Emrys’ body, hand hot on his back.

“Are you cold?” he whispered.

Emrys didn’t know how to respond, so he just pushed closer to Tor. It had been a long time since he’d felt the weight and warmth of another’s close embrace. He hadn’t even known he was craving it. They lay like that for a while, listening to the wind in the grass and the hoots of night creatures. Emrys felt a strange peace settle over him. He could do what he must. Tor wouldn’t hurt him.

He pushed gently with both, hands, drawing away from the other man’s hold, and sat upright. Tor looked up at him with the shine of the night sky in his eyes. Slowly, Emrys ran a hand down Tor’s chest, over his belly and between his legs. Tor drew in his breath hard and fast, making a choked sound. Then Emrys lowered his head and nuzzled there between his thighs, feeling the heat and hardness rising up to greet him. A stifled noise escaped Tor.

But before Emrys could even get his fingers on the drawstrings of the breeches, Tor’s hands were pulling him up and away, so that they lay facing each other again. “I did not ask that of you,” he said in a rough voice.

Emrys nodded, wishing he could speak. He laid his hand flat on Tor’s chest and tried to voice with his eyes. _It’s all right. I want to_.

Tor’s hand covered his. “Just lie beside me,” he said quietly. “It’s warmer here.”

Emrys squirmed close to him again and they stayed like that through the night, arms and legs touching, stars turning above. Eventually Emrys slept and dreamed. The hedges and meadows of his village were in full bloom with wild roses and swaying bluebells. The sun warmed him and the earth held him close.

Morning brought the scrutiny of the other sell-swords. And though Tor flushed in the force of their jests, he stayed firm. “It was a cold night,” he said. “A saddle blanket is not enough to keep a man from the chill.”

“Maybe he can warm himself in my bed tonight,” Wain said, waggling his eyebrows at Emrys.

Tor scowled. “He can sleep where he likes.”

“There’s a village in the hills there,” Lance said, pointing. “Perhaps the people there can take him in.”

Tor turned to Emrys who shook his head. He gestured to the group of them and then to the south coast where they were riding to hunt Saxons.

“He wants to go with us,” Tor said. “At least some ways.” 

“Well, he can’t just follow us around while we’re hunting,” Leo argued. “He’ll slow us down and be of no use when the Saxons are upon us.”

“Do you have any skills with weapons?” Tor asked Emrys.

Emrys gestured to the bow on El’s back. He’d honed his aim hunting rabbits and wood pigeons. But he’d had magic to help him then.

“Show us,” Wain urged him.

El took the bow off his back and handed Emrys an arrow. He squinted around them, then pointed to a twisted trunk of a dead juniper some distance away. “Hit that spur.”

Emrys swallowed a thick throatful of fear. The span of the wood looked no wider than his wrist. When he hunted in the forest, he spoke the words for clear aim and straight flight. Now he had only the strength in his arms, weakened by days on the run.

He took a deep breath, ran his fingers down the curve of the bow, feeling the weight of the wood and the way it flexed. It was much better than his old bow, sleek and supple and light. He held it up and pulled back the string, feeling the tension of the deer-gut string. Then he notched the arrow in it and drew it back.

The gnarled trunk came into a tight focus in his open eye. He counted his breaths and spoke the words in his head, asking for the goddesses’ blessings, entreating the arrow to fly swift and true. His magic swirled up from his feet to his fingertips and the crown of his head. But he could not release it. He could not send it into the shaft. _Fly swift, fly true, find your mark_, he entreated the arrow. Tor’s eyes weighed on his back, waiting.

The arrow streaked through the air and scraped the side of the wood, peeling off a strip of bark before burying itself in the ground. Not a clean hit, but not far off either.

“A decent shot,” El said. “But you won’t have a chance to breathe and pray in the rage of battle. If a Saxon is riding at you with a pike in his hand, can you still hit your mark?”

Emrys nodded eagerly. He had to go south. He had to put as much distance as he could between himself and Pendragon.

“We can get him bow,” Tor said. “He can ride one of the extra horses.”

Leo’s eyes narrowed. “This is a campaign. You can’t just bring along a pet, Artorius.”

“Why can’t he?” Wain demanded loudly. “After all, he is the—”

Lance lightly struck the back of his head with a gloved hand. “Watch your tongue.”

Wain glared. “What? The druid? How’s he going to tell? He doesn’t have a tongue to watch. And he can’t write.”

“He could make signs and pictures,” Percy suggested.

“It’s best to use caution,” Lance asserted. “The druid stays with us for now, as our commander wishes. We can reconsider his position later.”

The others nodded or grunted their assent. Some looked more concerned than others.

But Wain grinned widely and clapped a hand on Emrys’ shoulder. “Welcome to the prissiest bunch of sell-swords you ever did meet, young druid. Not one of these whoresons knows how to enjoy himself. But get them a little drunk and you’ll see they’re not all so bad.”


	2. Chapter 2

Emrys studied the bony chestnut mare taken from the slavers. She had scars and bare patches on her thin hide. Her spindly tail whipped at some flies on her flanks. He sucked in a deep breath. The next trial awaited him. He had ridden horses before, but never on his own. It seemed you steered their course with tugs to the reins and increased their speed with pressure of the heels. He could do that.

All the mercenaries were mounting their horses and he couldn’t delay any longer. He scrambled into the saddle and slid his feet into the stirrups. The mare shifted wearily beneath him. When he took the reins and pulled her head up, she shook the reins with a lashing of her neck. Startled, Emrys slackened his grip and her head went down again to return to grazing.

A few of the men chuckled. Tor trotted over to him. “She knows you are inexperienced and she’ll give you hell for it,” he said. “Here,” he grasped one rein and pulled hard. The mare’s head came up and she gave a resigned snort. “Be firm, not harsh. Don’t let up on her. When she knows she can’t get away with laziness, she’ll do as she’s told.”

Emrys nodded his thanks. Throughout the morning, he struggled to make the mare go as he wanted. She balked at the nudge of his heels and he had to nearly kick her sides before she would move. She seemed happy to follow the other horses, but lagged behind and when they did stop for the day, she would rather wander around camp than halt long enough for him to get off. Percy took to riding by his side and shouting advice, which helped at first, then chafed after many repetitions. However, when the other horses ran, the mare shook off her dust and pounded after them.

They flew over the dusty fields of the south sea, racing across the sandy tussocks of grass. The wind stung Emrys’ eyes and whipped his hair into a tousled black nest. Despite the mare’s desire not to be left behind, he could barely keep up with the other men on their fine horses. They must be an elite band, he decided, to have such fine mounts and armor. What’s more, they were only six, hardly enough to guard a herd of cattle. How did they expect to rout Saxon raiders in hordes four or five times their strength?

When they camped for the night, Emrys barely had the strength to consume his portion of the dried beef and carrots. His eyes refused to stay open. Tor spread out his bedroll and gestured for Emrys to lie down. As soon as he felt the ground beneath his head and the wool wrapped over his back, he fell into a deep slumber.

In his dreams, he had immense power. His magic flowed out of him without speech, splitting stone and dashing rivers off the rocks. He feared nothing. Pendragon burned like a wax pillar and his ashes scattered to the four winds.

Emrys awoke to Tor’s hands lifting the bedding to crawl in next to him. He was a heavy, solid presence against Emrys’ back. His soft breath filled Emrys’ ear and shivered the back of his neck. One arm slung over Emrys’ middle and held him close. His warmth filled Emrys like a gift.

In the gray light of the approaching sun, Emrys stirred slowly, grimacing at the aches in his legs and buttocks. Even his arms and feet hurt. Tor smiled at his expression of discomfort. “I remember the first time I had a long, hard ride. I thought I couldn’t stand the next day.”

Emrys made a face.

Tor grinned. “The fastest way to work out the aches is to get back on the horse and loosen those muscles and sinews again.” He sat up and moved beside Emrys. His strong hands kneaded Emrys’s calves and then his thighs. His blue eyes glanced up regularly to see Emrys’ expression.

To his dismay, Emrys felt himself heating under Tor’s gaze and the pressure of his hands. He tried to look away, but it did nothing to ease his arousal. Tor’s fingers worked steadily into his flesh, painful and wonderful at the same time.

“God’s eyes,” Tor swore softly, “you’re going to be trouble for me, aren’t you, Druid? I think you’ve already cast a compulsion on me.”

Emrys’ eyes jerked back to Tor, and he shook his head frantically.

“I know,” Tor said, moving to massage Emrys’ hands. “You can’t. It must be a huge blow to lose your tongue, but it’s better this way. There are too many who’d kill you for the power you had. Now you are a danger to no one.”

“Perhaps a danger to us,” Leo said nearby. “If you haven’t enchanted our commander, you’ve certainly addled his wits.”

“Off with you, Leo,” Tor said without heat.

A low fog hung over the fields, gray as the sky above. The sea wind had subsided to a soft breeze. Pale slips of clouds rolled over the grass. The riders moved through it like ghosts. It left silvery sheens on their horses’ hides and slicked their hair to their heads. Emrys, who had lost his cloak when the slavers took him, shivered in the damp chill.

At last, the winds returned, sweeping the fog away and allowing glimpses of sun. The grass had flattened somewhat under the weight of the dew, and the riders took great joy in hunting the exposed creatures of the grass. El shot a pair of moorhens, one after the other and Emrys took down a rangy hare in flight. There wasn’t much meat on its bones, but he felt a flash of pride all the same.

They reached the sea road in the late afternoon and happened upon a man with a basket of mussels setting out for the harbor. He took the three bright coins given him with a look of shocked delight, furthering Emrys’ suspicions that these were abnormally well-to-do sell-swords. At nightfall they followed a track down to a shallow cave—more of a crevice in the cliff. It sheltered them somewhat from the wind and they soon had a large fire going to roast their kills.

The roar of the sea covered the sound of conversation. Emrys could see that Tor and Lance and Leo were having an intense discussion but he couldn’t hear them. Percy and El were building up the fire and plucking the moorhens. Wain scrambled down the cliffside to get a flask full of seawater to cook the mussels in. Emrys set himself to skinning his hare some distance away, so as not to leave blood and offal near the campsite. He looked up from time to time to watch Tor’s face, beautiful and stern with concentration. _I would be his_, he thought. _I would be his hound and his hawk, hunting for him and warming his bed._

Soon, the smell of cooking meat and steaming shellfish drew everyone close to the fire. They consumed their feast with much smacking of lips and grunts of appreciation. It could have used salt and herbs, Percy suggested, but it was a welcome respite from eating hardened meat and limp carrots. They wiped the grease from their fingers on the reedy grasses clinging to the cliffside and passed around the flagon of ale.

Emrys sat at Tor’s side, listening to the jests and japes that flew between the men. Up to this point, they’d cautiously truncated their stories and speech, as though fearing he’d carry tales to their enemies. But now they seemed to forget about his presence, or ceased to doubt his loyalty. They spoke of hunting strange creatures—basilisks and cockatrices, a great black beast. Some of them had even ridden in tournaments. Perhaps they were disgraced sons of minor noblemen now forced to make a living as mercenaries. Whether they were speaking in code of their exploits or truly had hunted monsters, these sell-swords were a rare breed.

The fire sank down into coals that flared with each gust of wind. The men wrapped up for the night. The crevice didn’t allow enough space to spread out, so they slumped against the stone walls, shoulder to shoulder. Tor pulled Emrys to him and wrapped his cloak around them both. The regular percussion of the sea lulled them to sleep.

The stretch of pebbled beach wasn’t easy to reach, but the men were young and reckless. They scrambled down the cliffside like goat kids, daring each other to continue. Emrys followed behind El, watching his handholds and the places he put his feet. He wondered if they’d be able to get to the top again. Behind him, Tor called out encouragement and grabbed the back of his tunic when he thought Emrys was about to slide. Emrys’ knee still twinged with pain when he put too much weight on it, but it was far from the fiery torment of his time walking with the slavers.

The strip of beach stretched below the chalky cliffs, covered with red, brown, and gray stones, colors burnished by the water. Waves trailed skirts of white foam over the rocks. A flock of gulls watched their arrival with interest. Wain was the first to strip down and jump into the breakers. The others laughed at him, but his roar of shock and his bared-teeth grin set their imaginations aflame. “Get in, you callow fools!” he shouted.

Soon they were all undressing, even Emrys who winced at the bite of the cold wind. But when he scrambled over the slick stones and fell into the surf, it was almost beyond cold. It numbed him from all pain. All of them were covered in gooseflesh, teeth chattering, but they leapt and splashed and let the waves break over them. There was a glorious power in the crashing force. Wain and El started grappling to see who could knock the other down. Percy splashed Leo and, in his attempt to flee, slipped on the rocks and fell into the water with a shout.

Tor shook water out of his dripping hair and wiped the salt from his eyes. He grinned at Emrys through the thick spray. Emrys laughed incredulously. Then Tor ran, splashing through the shallows, threw his arms around Emrys and pushed him down into the tide. Their legs tangled, their bare skin slid together, and Emrys forgot the chill bite of wind and water. The water closed over their heads, the surf thundered and rushed around them in swirling bubbles. They were one creature locked in the pull of the sea. Then Tor pulled him up and they both gasped for a lungful of air.

The morning sun lit the scene with shards of gold through the press of clouds. Tor looked like a young god with his skin and hair aglow. Water thickened his lashes and shone on his mouth. Emrys felt he’d fallen into a trance, just staring at him. Then another wave broke over him, dashing the vision away.

A score of miles down the road, they came upon the first burnt village. The huts were charred shells and the blackened beams of the elder’s hall curved up like the belly of a rotted whale. Tor and his men dismounted and studied the tracks in the ashes. They concluded that a dozen raiders or more had torched the settlement no more than two days ago. What’s more, they had taken the sheep and cattle, so they couldn’t move fast.

From then on, they set a grueling pace and Emrys’ mare struggled to keep up. The sell-swords only stopped for water and to check for the trail in stony sections. The tracks led them through a stilted pine copse and deeper inland. Near a rockslide, El found a broken spur stamped with a seven-pointed star.

“Essetir,” Lance hissed. “It’s as we feared.”

Tor’s face hardened, but Wain looked almost gleeful. “We’ll catch them red-handed bringing the Saxons into Albion,” he crowed.

“If we’re in luck, Kanen will be with them,” Leo said quietly.

“If we’re truly in luck, Cenred will be nearby,” Percy murmured.

“No king is going to be out riding with raiders,” El scoffed.

Tor laughed. “What if he were a prince? Then could he ride with ruffians?”

“Only if he kept his mouth shut and didn’t flash it around,” Leo said with a stern glare.

Emrys couldn’t follow the exchange at all. The king of Essetir escorting Saxon raiders up from the sea? Why? And why would the sell-swords need luck to find him? Did they want to be employed in his service? But they were already hired by another king, or so they said. From the handfuls of coins they threw around, they must have been paid handsomely.

“We’ll cover our faces,” Tor said. “We don’t need any descriptions running back to Cenred…or anyone else.” He turned on his horse to survey the little band. “Swords loose and mouths covered from here on out. We could stumble on their rearguard at any time.”

El and Percy needed their bows, so they gave Emrys one of the crossbows taken from the slavers and made sure that he knew how to load it. There were only a handful of bolts for it. He tied them together and kept them in his tunic’s pocket.

The trail stretched on through the pines, climbing steadily. The sell-swords rarely spoke, and only in hushed tones. Even loquacious Wain stayed silent for the most part. The path grew narrower as they ascended and Emrys wondered that the Saxons had managed to drive their stolen beasts this way. But the many hoofprints and piles of dung showed that they had. It quickly became obvious why they had—bones and slaughtered carcasses appeared here and there, drawing flies and bees. The livestock were a moving feast for the raiders, providing a steady diet of fresh meat.

The light was fading rapidly as they crested the long hill and Emrys wondered if they would camp there for the night. But then he saw the fires in the wide gulch below. Two thick bonfires blazed in the narrow clearing, no doubt eating up the grease dripping of the Saxons’ most recent kills. In their jumping light, Emrys could see the shadows of men sitting and moving about. Surely more than a dozen, he thought with a stab of icy fear.

Tor gestured to Lance and they spoke quietly. Then all six huddled together, whispering about approaches and attack strategies. Emrys couldn’t believe they actually intended to fight. Six (seven?) against a score of sea raiders?

Then Tor moved to Emrys and touched his shoulder. “Follow me at a five-horse distance. Use all the bolts you have and then get out.” He took Emrys’ right hand and pressed the hilt of a dagger into it. The weapon felt heavy and cold in his hand. He knew immediately that it was true steel, incredibly valuable and worth more than his life. A single yellow gem glittered from the hilt. Tor put a hand on his shoulder. In the deepening shadows of the trees, his eyes were the color of the sea. “If one of them is upon you and you have no bolts, do your best to live.”

Emrys nodded, heart aching in his chest. Not more than a few days ago, he’d been considering ways to die. Now he’d as good as promised this man his life. _I won’t leave you_, he thought foolishly, desperately. _Don’t leave me._

Tor dropped his hand turned back to his men. “Memorize your path. When sun is gone, don’t be stumbling over logs and rocks.”

Then they pulled thin cloth over their mouths and noses to hide their features. El and Percy readied their bows. And they waited for the last rays of the sun to fall behind the ridge, casting the narrow valley into near total darkness. As night descended, Tor hissed a word. Lance and Wain descended the ridge slowly on the left side, weaving between rotted stumps and dense undergrowth. Tor and Leo mirrored them on the right, with Emrys a dutiful distance behind.

He could barely see the rump of Tor’s horse in the thick darkness. Occasionally a gleam of moonlight or firelight penetrated the trees and gleamed off the metal of his armor. They picked their way down the hillside, skirting brambles and bolt holes. They circled to the far side of the camp, so close that Emrys couldn’t believe they hadn’t been spotted. But the light of the high fires blinded the Saxons to the darkness beyond, and they had no reason to expect an attack.

By the time someone shouted out the alarm, Tor and Leo were close enough to plunge into the camp. They spurred their horses and shouted like demons. Merlin’s mare lurched forward, but he yanked back on the reins to stop her just outside of the ring of firelight.

The camp was roiling like a kicked beehive. Two raiders went fell immediately to the ground with long arrows in their chests sent from the bows on the hillside. Tor and Leo raced through the camp, cutting down men still scrambling for their weapons. From the other side, Wain and Lance closed the trap, scything through the Saxons there. In the bloody, noisy chaos, they had taken down a good portion of the camp before the raiders could even fight back. And arrows continued to rain down from the ridge where El and Percy were perched.

Emrys had strung a bolt into the crossbow, but he was reluctant to fire it and give away his position. However, when he saw a pair of men with spears were harrying Tor’s horse. Emrys sent a bolt into the back of one, jerking a little with the recoil of the bow. Tor’s sword sliced through the spear of the second man and then cut deep into his neck.

Screams and roars filled the night. A Saxon fell back into the fire trying to evade a charging horse and his howls were terrible. Emrys bit his lower lip and furiously blocked out memories of his village’s massacre. He reloaded the crossbow and shot a red-headed man carrying a broadsword. He reloaded again.

There were still far too many Saxons, swarming the four riders, and the small contingent of men in Essiter colors continued to fight fiercely. Their leader, a man with a gray-streaked beard who shouted orders and curses, had mounted his horse and was currently charging Leo. Meanwhile, Tor fought back a trio of soldiers and a pair of Saxons, all trying to surround him. Emrys used three of his crossbow bolts to even the odds. One went wide and missed its mark. He had two bolts remaining, he realized, feeling the shafts in his pocket. When he looked up from re-loading the bow, he saw a tall Saxon racing toward him, face twisted in a snarl. He barely got the shot off, hitting the raider in the throat, somehow. The man fell to the ground without a sound and writhed there, hands closing around the shaft sticking out of his neck.

Nauseated, Emrys lifted his head and blinked through the sweat gathering on his face and stinging his eyes. Lance and Wain were chasing clusters of Saxons into the forest. Leo had been knocked off his horse and was fighting on foot while Tor had taken up battling the Essiter leader. They both wheeled their horses dodging and striking with their long swords. A second soldier rode in behind Tor and cast a wicked mace at his back. Tor twisted, but the blow still landed on his hip, throwing him off balance. Immediately, the enemy leader caught him with a hard strike of his sword, forcing Tor to slide out of his stirrups and hit the earth with a clang of metal.

A cry escaped Emrys’ throat. He raised the crossbow and loosed his final bolt. It punched into the Essiter man’s side, making him reel. In an instant, Tor was on his feet, driving his sword under the other man’s hauberk, fast and deep. The soldier with the mace had turned and started galloping toward Emrys’ position under the trees. He kicked his mare in the sides, frantic to get away. Then the spiky mace was swinging in at him and he had to tumble off the mare to avoid the impact.

He hit the ground hard and rolled to escape getting trampled. But when he could finally get his feet under him, shoulder aching and head spinning, the mace was flying at him again—fast and low. He had to roll again, tucking his body tightly. He sprang to a crouch and drew the dagger out of his belt. When the rider wheeled around and charged at him again, he leapt across the the horse’s path and sliced the dagger through the rider’s calf. It was sharp as the claws of hell and cut through his breeches like soft wax, running through muscle and sinew.

The rider screamed like a man possessed and dropped his mace. It thudded hollowly on the dead leaves of the forest floor. His spooked horse carried him fast and far through the trees and into the night. The darkness swallowed up his back, as though he had never been. Emrys stood, holding the bloody dagger, breathing hard. His mare watched him from some distance, big eyes glittering in the flashes of the dying fires.

El and Percy had joined their comrades in routing the camp, mopping up the remaining Essiter soldiers and the lone Saxon. Within minutes, only the dead and wounded remained.

Tor found Emrys still standing there, dagger clutched tight. He laughed with relief. “I thought you might be a vengeful goblin there in the dark. Good fight, Druid?”

Emrys shrugged. He had the presence of mind to wipe off the dagger on a patch of moss before handing to back to Tor.

“Keep it,” Tor said. “You’ve bloodied it for the first time. It fits your hand.” He had a reddening bruise on his cheekbone and he walked stiffly. “Come here. We need to stay together.”

Emrys nodded and followed dazedly behind him.

Wain and Leo were crouched around the fallen Essiter leader, binding his hands. He still lived, although clearly in great pain. Blood covered his upper thigh, running down from the strike Tor got under his hauberk. The crossbow bolt protruded from his side.

“You did us proud, Druid,” Wain said with a grin. A shallow cut on his neck left a smear of red down his mail shirt. “Thanks to you, we got Kanen the Horrible.”

The injured man sneered up at him. “You have to resort to druids skulking in the woods with crossbows now? What kind of warriors are you?”

“The kind that just wiped out all your forces in less than an hour with four swords and three bows,” Tor said, eyes hard. “Does Cenred know that his men are escorting raiders into Albion to pillage and burn?”

Kanen laughed wetly. A bloody froth lined his lips. “Does your father know you’re traveling with a druid?”

“Where’s Cenred?” Tor demanded. “Is he treating with raiders?”

“You’d like me to tell you he’s right here, hiding in that tent,” Kanen said, sneering. “That’s why you came all this way, dressed up like commoners, isn’t it? You’re all assassins now, not knights. And you’ll kill kings as long as your conscious says they deserve it for treating with your enemies.” He coughed harshly.

“There was a pact,” Tor said. “If Cenred is trying to undermine his neighbors by employing others to loot and kill, the pact is null. There is no protection for kings who break their vows.”

“Don’t try to justify your murders to me, boy,” Kanen growled. He coughed hard again. Red spittle trailed down his chin to wet his beard.

“Tell me where Cenred is,” Tor demanded. He grasped the crossbow shaft in one hand, twisting it, and Kanen hissed and closed his eyes against the pain. “You will die no matter, but it could be mercifully quick or wretchedly drawn out.”

Kanen shook his head. A fit of coughing took him again and his face was tight with agony. “Quick or slow, the end is the same. Pain is an old friend of mine.”

“Then you will spend some time with your friend,” Tor said. He let go of the crossbow bolt, straightened his back, and walked away.

After questioning all the wounded and searching the bodies of the fallen and their supplies, the sell-swords concluded that the Saxons had come from the southwest region, near Glaverton. They had goods stamped with the sign of a blacksmith in that area and bottles of ale from a brewery there. The mercenary company would set off in the morning, in hopes of finding clues to Cenred’s involvement in the coastal raids.

The men took turns keeping watch that night, for fear that the deserters would return. Emrys couldn’t sleep listening to Kanen’s wheezing and rattling breaths from the tent nearby. At one point it almost sounded as though he were weeping. But he never called out, never acquiesced to a confession. In the morning he was dead.

They started moving as the sun rose, cutting through the woodland south and east. The terrain of brambles, vines, thick ferns, and mossy rocks slowed their progress and they had to stop for the night by a rushing stream. The company stripped and washed in the icy water, with much less energy than they had beside the river.

Wain’s cut had scabbed over, but his sword hand was swollen from a hilt blow. Lance had a wound on his thigh from a spear. Leo had a bruised hip from his fall and his horse had long cut along her flank. Tor had a deep purple bruise on his lower back from the impact of the mace. But thanks to his armor, it had not pierced his skin. The sword blow to his chest armor left an impressive dent, but no damage. His horse was also recovering from a cut on its hindquarters, but it didn’t appear deep. Emrys himself had a few dents and scrapes from his fall from the mare and his tumbling over the stones and debris of the forest floor. But the fact that the seven of them had defeated more than thrice their number without a single loss astounded him.

He had to confront the truth. These were more than elite sell-swords or the fallen sons of noblemen. They were royal knights of the highest military training, on a secret mission, _pretending_ to be sell-swords. And they couldn’t even come up with convincing names.

_What have I gotten myself tangled up in?_ Emrys wondered wearily. Fate seemed to be dragging him along blindly from one violent muddle to another. He thought he should have become a forest hermit living in a tree with crows and squirrels as his only companions.

Then Tor came up to him in the stream, fair hair plastered to his skull, wet and shivering and smiling. He touched Emrys’ face, noting the nicks and bruises on his face. He stroked down Emrys’ jawline. “All right, my druid?”

Emrys felt his skin burn despite the cold water trickling over it. He nodded shyly, longing to kiss Tor’s wet mouth.

Then Wain cackled and splashed them both. Tor cursed and charged after him.

When he had his dry tunic pulled over his freezing skin, Emrys decided to search for some comfrey and heal-all in the forest. It’d do them all good to get a treatment for their cuts and bruises. He gestured expressively to plants and then his swollen shoulder and then pointed to the forest.

Tor nodded. “Don’t go far. Looks like it might rain”

Emrys set landmarks in his mind as he walked to keep from getting lost. He tried to stay on a straight course, but skirting dense thickets of wild roses and brackish pools soon set him on a weaving path. He finally found a patch of comfrey hiding behind a big burdock plant, and picked it all. Then he scouted around for more clusters, filling his pockets.

A noisy flock of crows was chattering at him in the high boughs of the alder trees. A small animal rustled through the undergrowth, fleeing when he got too close. He found a patch of wild strawberries in a sunny grove and knelt to carefully pick the tiny fruits. There wasn’t even enough to fill his palm, but he held them tenderly—tiny jewels.

The sound of footsteps in the brush made him tense and crouch down again, hand going to the dagger at his hip. He stayed as still as a coney in the tall grass, muscles quivering. The footsteps crunched nearer and nearer. They seemed to be passing him by.

Then Tor’s voice called out. “Druid? Are you here?”

Emrys rose, deflating with relief.

Tor approached, wearing only his loose shirt over his breeches. His hair was still wet and slicked against his head. He looked very young and vulnerable. Emrys realized for the first time that they might be near the same age. Tor stood before him. He was no taller than Emrys, perhaps even slightly shorter. He had the little sticky green seeds of cleavers clinging to his side and a brown burr on his long sleeve. His shirt fell open at the neck, showing a generous portion of his throat and chest.

Emrys extended his hand, full of forest rubies. Some had squished a bit when his hand clenched during his frightened crouch.

But Tor grinned and plucked one berry, pushing it between his lips. “Let’s eat them all and not share any with the others,” he said. He picked up a second one and held it to Emrys’ mouth, nudging it to his lips.

Emrys opened his mouth and let Tor feed him the berry. He couldn’t taste much anymore, so he let the memory of wild strawberries roll over him: tart and sweet and soft and thick with many seeds. He and Freya always filled their woven grass baskets with berries in the spring. He crunched it between his teeth and swallowed it.

“Are you well?” Tor asked with a note of concern. “You look sad.”

Emrys couldn’t respond, so he just poured the rest of the berries in Tor’s palm.

“You don’t want these?” Tor put a few in his mouth and chewed. “Is it hard to eat them without a tongue?”

Emrys nodded slowly.

“I’m sorry,” Tor said softly. “I wish it had never happened. I wish you could speak and sing and tell me everything you’re thinking. I wish I knew your name.”

Emrys lifted his eyes, chest straining with the fullness.

Tor sighed. “But if you could speak, you wouldn’t be here. You’d probably be far away taming a dragon or raising forests over farmland. You’d probably bring fire down to kill me on the spot.”

Emrys frowned, baffled. Kill Tor? It was unthinkable.

“But I’m glad we’re both here now,” Tor murmured. “Even if it’s wrong.” He lifted his hand and traced a line down Emrys’ cheek with one berry-stained finger, marking him. The finger trailed over his jaw and down his neck to the hemline of his tunic.

Emrys quivered at his touch. Just a fingertip, but it sent sweet ripples through him. He tilted his head back, baring his neck like a victim waiting for a bite. Tor leaned in and touched the sticky line of berry juice with his tongue, just under Emrys’ eye where it began. He licked the length of Emrys’ face, then sucked on the edge of his jaw. Then his mouth descended to the hollow of Emrys’ throat, cleaning all traces of strawberry off his skin. He sucked and licked, sending Emrys into a dizzy haze of hunger.

Emrys’ hands came up to pull Tor closer. He made hoarse sounds in his throat. His fingers scrambled under Tor’s shirt to the cool, firm body beneath. He wanted to touch every inch of that pale skin. He wanted to run his hands through Tor’s sun-bright hair and drink from his red mouth. He wanted to take Tor apart and find every secret place in him.

Rain tapped on his head, splashed on his face. They released each other, flushed and panting. Emrys laughed as the rain fell around them. He could still laugh. He took Tor’s hand and pulled him under the cover of the big fir tree. _Dryer here_.

Emrys leaned back against the tree and Tor came to him. He wrapped his arms around Tor again, just feeling the breadth and weight of him against his body. He was warm and strong and eager to touch. They were kissing somehow, deeply and fully. Tor didn’t seem to mind the empty space in his mouth. His breath came hot and fast. Emrys nipped his lower lip and felt Tor roll into him. In their breeches, they were both as hard as stone and every contact felt like joy and torture in the same touch.

Emrys lowered his hands to squeeze the strong curves of Tor’s buttocks and Tor bucked against him, groaning into his mouth. They just moved together for a long time, reveling in the glorious pleasure of pressure and friction.

Then Tor was scrambling between them, trying to get his breeches unlaced. Emrys almost laughed again at the absurdity of it—rubbing together against a tree in the middle of a rainstorm. But he was too breathless and giddy with desire. He pulled at his own breeches, working them down enough to free his turgid prick. It brushed against the rough fabric of his tunic, making him gasp.

In an instant, Tor was pushing close to him again. “If I do anything that displeases you, just strike me,” he said in a rough voice and Emrys nodded so hard he nearly slammed the back of his head into the tree. Tor’s bare prick brushed his and they both inhaled sharply. Tor’s head fell beside his. His breath was hot and rushing into Emrys’ ear.

Emrys reached down between them and took them both in his hand. Tor’s manhood was thick and already slick with the edge of his seed. When it rubbed against’ Emrys’ it was so good, he felt gold color the edges of his vision. Tor moaned into his ear. His hips rocked into Emrys’ grip. They rode the hot waves together, unable to stop moving. Emrys closed his eyes. Sunlight and fire raced in jagged veins through him. Something splintered inside him.

In one part of his mind, he was flesh and bone breaking against Tor, tangled up in his pleasure and the demands of their young bodies. He could feel Tor’s raw, wild joy like a buck rutting in the midst of a storm. He could taste the strawberries and feel cool streaks of rain on his back.

In the other part of him, his back was against the great fir tree and he felt the golden slide of the sap inside it and the roots coiling in the soft earth and all the little needles collecting nets of rain in the boughs above. And he was the tree and he was Tor and he was Emrys and the magic swelled and leapt inside him. It blazed from the earth under his feet, up his legs, and through every vein in his body.

“Ah!” Tor shouted. The hot rush of his seed spilled over Emrys’ hand. Their bodies slowed, still rolling into each other like a slow surf. Emrys realized distantly that he’d also spent himself between the two of them at some point. The glow of fulfillment hummed in his blood.

Tor’s head fell to Emrys’ shoulder, still panting. “You did something to me.”

Emrys made an inquisitive sound.

Tor kissed his neck. “I felt like an earthquake was breaking through me. It was terrifying, but I couldn’t bear for it to stop.”

Emrys stroked his back with his free hand.

Eventually they untangled, did their best to clean themselves with moss and damp leaves and ferns. They traced their way back through the forest, fingers brushing as they walked.

Tor said “I wish you still rode behind me so you could hold on to me all day.” He sighed. “I wish we could be alone in a great room with a wide feather bed with long curtains and no one would disturb us. I would love you for hours and days.”

Emrys wished that he could make a home in a hollow tree in the center of the forest. And he’d be alone except Tor would be there too and they’d be safe and warm inside the tree. And they could do whatever they wanted all year long.

The rain had slowed but they were still fairly soaked by the time they returned to the stream. The sell-swords had managed to string a length of canvas taken from the Saxons’ camp between two trees. It sagged and dripped but offered some shelter from the rain. The five men crowded under it. A few had fallen asleep in their cloaks. Wain looked up with a wide grin. “Get lost gathering herbs?”

Emrys touched his tunic. He had completely forgotten about the comfrey. It had probably gotten a bit mashed by the fervor of their passions, but he would have to smash it anyway for poultices.

“We found wild strawberries,” Tor said raising his hand that was still stained pink.

“And didn’t bring any back?” Percy grumbled.

“We were hungry,” Tor said, smiling with all his teeth, like a happy wolf.

After that, they were like drunkards craving another sip of the strong honey mead. Any time their eyes met, they shared a coursing longing, like a tight thread between them. Days were long, aching hours of stolen glances and smiles until night came and they could bed down away from the others. Even then, only furtive touches could be taken in the darkness, long kisses and caresses, stifling their moans and the movements of their bodies.

Emrys woke each morning as hard and wanting as the night before. He longed for a moment of seclusion—to lay Tor down in the ferns and consume him completely. But there were no chances on the journey southwest as the woodlands thinned out and they came to rolling grassland again. They had to content themselves with fleeting touches and sips of pleasure.

Of course, the others were no fools and they had plenty of japes and knowing chuckles to dispense. But none of it was in ill humor. They had grown to appreciate Emrys for the herbs he used to treat their hurts, and when he brought down a doe in a hunt with El, there was much celebration. Also, he could roll knuckle-bone dice with the best of them, although Tor forbade gambling in the company. They used pebbles for markers and could force a loser to sing a song or tell a story. Emrys had to do a dance one night, when luck left him, and the rolling laughter from the sell-swords made him falter and laugh along with them.

One night, scrounging for firewood with Tor and Percy, Emrys felt a twinge of danger spark up his spine. He stopped, watching Tor’s back as he kicked at a fallen log, looking for a dry branch.

_Poison_! His magic shrieked. Emrys shouted at Tor’s back, wordless and loud.

Tor turned to look at him.

_Away!_ Emrys thought, _Venomous worm! _But he could only squawk without meaning.

Tor’s eyes widened. He shuffled back, away from the log. And after a long breath, the shining brown length of the adder emerged. It slipped through the grass like a whisper, leaving them.

Tor drew in a deep breath. “Did you say something?” His eyes on Emrys were bright with fear. Every muscle in his body tensed. “I heard a voice in my mind.”

Emrys shook his head rapidly. The terror in Tor’s face choked him. He felt dizzy and shaky. He had the inexplicable desire to run.

Percy approached with an armful of spiky twigs. “All I could find in this barren wasteland,” he grumbled. He looked at the two of them. “What’s rattled you?”

“An adder,” Tor said. “I nearly shoved my hand into its jaws.”

Percy cursed. “I knew a fellow who suffered an adder bite. His leg swelled to the size of a log and turned black. You’re lucky, my lord.”

“Yes,” Tor murmured, not looking at Emrys.

That night in the bedroll, they lay close but did not touch. The wind above them passed clouds over the stars. Emrys tried to keep as small and silent as possible. Perhaps Tor would forget the incident with the snake, or dismiss it as the voice of his instinct. Maybe that’s all it was. Magic didn’t work without spoken words.

Then he heard a voice—Tor’s voice, but from a distance. _“Can you hear me?”_

Emrys stiffened without thinking, and that was his inadvertent answer, betraying himself.

Tor sucked in a deep breath. _“You knew of the adder, though you could not see it. You warned me without words. How is this possible?”_

Emrys blinked hard_. “I don’t know,” _he thought-said to Tor. _“I’ve never spoken like this before…without a tongue.”_

Tor shivered against him. “That’s the first time I heard your voice,” he said aloud. “Well, the first time I heard your words. “It’s…I didn’t expect you to sound like that.”

_“My name is Emrys,”_ Emrys said. _“I was never much good at magic before, but I always felt it. Perhaps it’s found another way to help me communicate.”_

_“You mustn’t tell anyone,”_ Tor said. _“Only speak this way with me. Where we come from, magic use is a killing offense. It’s better if everyone thinks you are without_ _it.”_

Camelot, Emrys realized. A cold weight pressed down on his chest. Of course, Fate would pull him here. He had to get away. He would have to leave the company, and Tor. He clenched his eyes shut against the tears.

_“Not me,”_ Tor said. _“I’d never hurt you. But it is the law in our land. I can’t change it, not yet. So, this is our secret.” _He curled an arm over Emrys’ side and pulled him closer. _“Emrys. I won’t abandon you.”_ His mouth touched Emrys’ closed eyes. _“They won’t take you from me.”_

They could ride beside each other all day and speak without anyone hearing. At first, they were cautious, only making brief remarks, but then they grew bolder and carried on entire conversations as they rode. If the other sell-swords wondered at Tor’s preoccupation or his sudden snorts of laughter, they seemed to accept his excuses of what he was thinking about.

With his mind-voice Emrys explained his flight from the druids and his capture by the slavers. Of course, Tor wanted to know why he had left and Emrys revealed that a prophecy had frightened him. But he only told Tor that the prophecy had seen him betraying his people and working against them. There was no sense in mentioning the name Uther Pendragon to a man from Camelot and putting ideas into his head.

But Tor was brimming with questions about druids and magic and the Old Religion. When Emrys gave him stilted responses he frowned._ “You don’t trust me, do you?”_

_“You’re from Camelot,”_ Emrys said simply. _“We can pretend to be friends here in the wilds, but there your people would cut off my head.”_

Tor sighed deeply, drawing an odd look from Lance. _“I hate the executions, but I understand them too.”_ He seemed to struggle for words. _“You wouldn’t use magic to hurt people, but not everyone is like you, Emrys.”_

Emrys thought of casting fire on the slavers and snorted softly. _“I’d hurt people who wanted to hurt me. I’m not a meek lamb walking to the slaughter.”_

_“But when you have a power like that—to overwhelm and destroy with a handful of words—who can stand against that? If you can enchant a man’s mind and turn him to your will, who can stop you?”_ Tor shook his head slightly. _“It’s too much. And it always brings death. My mother died for magic’s demands.”_

_“And my mother and father both died for Uther’s fear,” _Emrys shot back_. “Their entire village was wiped out because druids inhabited it. None of them had raised a finger against Camelot or its subjects, but still they were cut down.”_

Tor was silent for a long moment, lips tight and brow furrowed._ “I lament your loss. I never knew those who died for my father’s law. Before I met you, I always saw druids as people consumed by power who refused to give up a deadly weapon and so deserved to die. Since magic took my mother from me, I cannot help but see it as a gate to death and an evil bargain.”_

_“There is a cost,”_ Emrys admitted. _“But a skilled user knows the costs and prepares to pay them.”_

_“And unskilled or careless users kill without understanding or remorse,”_ Tor argued_. “Imagine the most powerful magic user you know and think if he decided to make himself the ruler of the world. We must prevent that at all costs.”_

_“We would,”_ Emrys countered. _“Mages and druids would rise up to restore balance. Cutting off magic completely is not the answer. Beheading children and mothers and fathers and old ones because they can cast a simple cantrip is not the answer.”_

Tor nodded a little. _“I agree that is a bridge too far, but where do we draw the line? How can we measure a person’s potential for destruction?”_

_“You can prosecute those who use magic to commit crimes,”_ Emrys said, _“The same as you’d punish those who commit crimes without magic.”_

_“So, if a mage massacres a city square and you could have prevented it by taking him out earlier, how do you live with that?”_

_“I live with it because I cannot see the future and I cannot execute innocents for fear of what they might do.”_

Tor sighed. _“I see your reasoning. But it’s not so simple when you are leading a nation and trying to choose what is best for your people. Sometimes you must make choices that please no one and even work against your principles, because you know it will protect the most people.”_

_“So, the minority must suffer and die so that the majority can sleep well at night?”_

Tor’s mouth tightened. He was silent for a moment. _“I don’t know the answer. You have given me much to consider.”_

“What are you two looking so glum about?” Wain demanded, riding beside them. “Artorius here not getting it up at night?”

Tor’s face flooded with color. “Go boil your head, Gwaine. No one wants you here.”

Wain winked at Emrys. “If he’s not satisfying you, Druid, you know who will.”

Emrys laughed and some of the tension of the earlier conversation leaked away. He nodded at Wain and basked in Tor’s silent fury.

_“If he touches you…”_

_“What?”_ Emrys demanded. _“Maybe he’ll satisfy me after all. I do have a large appetite.”_

They rode on, half listening to Wain’s prattle about the horses and women and salted pork of the southwest coast. Tor’s gaze kept sliding over Emrys. Was he thinking about their earlier conversation, pondering Emrys’ points? It would do him good to have his narrow ideas challenged. Tor’s hands were clenched around the loose reins. His back was straight in the saddle. His powerful thighs flexed as he rode.

_“I wish I was your horse,”_ Emrys said with a hint of mischief. _“I wish your legs were wrapped around me.”_

Tor inhaled sharply, but to his credit, kept his eyes straight ahead_. “Don’t tease me now. We have a long way to go.”_

_“I want to strip you to the skin and touch all your scars and bite your pretty mouth.”_

A shiver trembled Tor’s hands and arms. He closed his eyes briefly.

_“What do you want?”_ Emrys asked. _“What do you imagine?”_

_“A bathtub full of warm water covering me,”_ Tor admitted softly, _“and you in my lap all slick and clean and wriggling like a young eel.”_

Emrys had never bathed in a tub. He tried to picture it, but all he could think about was Tor in the river, shining with the water, blue eyes lapping him up. Or Tor wrapped around him in the ocean waves. He shifted on his saddle, ashamed by the hardness in his breeches.

Wain didn’t seem to notice, thank the Goddess.

Rain clouds had started to gather in the south, so when they stumbled upon the abandoned settlement, it felt like a gift. The roof of the town hall was sagging and broken in places, but it still offered some shelter, as did a few of the smaller buildings that had not lost all their thatching.

Tor quickly divided them up, sending Lance, El, and Percy to the big hall; Wain and Leo to the smaller hut on the side; and himself and Emrys to the empty cattle shed. They got a few knowing smirks from the others, but rain had already started pounding down, so they separated quickly and went to their shelters.

No sooner had Tor latched the sagging door behind them than they were on each other, like starving beasts. Emrys shut off his mind and the blaring warning ringing inside it. Tor kissed him like he might die without Emrys’ mouth. His fingers yanked uselessly at the ties of Emrys’ breeches. When Emrys tried to help, their fingers tangled together and they laughed, hoarse and desperate.

Tor focused on sucking on the curve of Emrys’ neck while Emrys slowly lost all the thoughts in his head, unlacing his breeches with shaking fingers while Tor panted against him. His prick was so hard, it pushed through the loosening laces. Tor licked his chin and the tendons of his throat. He spread his mouth over the divot between Emrys’ collarbones, hungry for bare skin.

Emrys shoved his breeches down to his knees, but they constricted him there, so he went for his boots, pushing Tor away.

Groaning, Tor scrambled to take off his chest armor and then pulled his shirt over his head. He unfastened his own breeches and pushed them down to his thighs. By that time, Emrys had worked his way out of his own garments and stood wearing only his tunic that fell to the tops of his thighs.

He looked at the ground covered in moldering straw and said, _“Up against the wall?”_

Tor made an inarticulate sound and crowded him into the hard planks of the shed’s wall. Emrys stretched his arms over his head and let Tor kiss him again, rough and thorough. The fabric of his tunic protected him against the worst friction of the boards. Tor’s muscled weight rolled into him and their pricks jostled against each other in an intoxicating pressure. Tor’s hot breath steamed against Emrys’ ear.

Emrys’ fingers dug into Tor’s lovely hair, pulled him back. Tor’s eyes were dark and unfocused; he looked like a man in a fever. Emrys rubbed Tor’s jaw with his thumbs, feeling the bristle of short beard. He pushed two fingers into Tor’s mouth and felt his cock jerk when Tor sucked them hard, tongue exploring every callus and crease.

Withdrawing his fingers glistening with Tor’s saliva, Emrys reached down behind himself and pushed them inside himself. It was rough and painful and sent a hot rush up his spine. Tor watched him with an open mouth and dark, dazed eyes.

_“Here, in me,”_ Emrys said. _“Do it like this.”_

Then Emrys turned around, leaned forward, and set his palms against the wall. Tor’s hand pushed his tunic up to expose his buttocks. Then a finger slid inside him, gingerly, carefully. Emrys made an encouraging noise and push his hips back. Tor breathed in deep and added another digit, stretching and probing him. Tor’s wet fingers inside him were too much and not enough. Not slick enough, too big, and not big enough. Emrys moaned long and loud, prick twitching at the rough invasion.

_“Now,”_ he said, sweating and praying and wanting.

There was the sound of Tor spitting in his hand and then the thick head of his prick, pushing, pleading for entrance. It wasn’t enough, but they had no oil, no fat. The burning pressure of Tor’s cockhead shoving inside him overwhelmed his pleasure and made him want to squirm and protest. _Open_, Emrys pleaded with his body. Then, like a blessed door, he did. Tor slid smoothly inside him with only the slightest friction, filling every part of Emrys.

Tor’s hands went to Emrys’ hips, steadying himself. He was breathing like a man at the end of a race. Every time he shifted, he made a low sound in his throat. “Emrys,” he gasped. “I can’t hold. I’m dying.”

_“You’re not dying,”_ Emrys said, he rocked back against Tor’s hips. Oh yes. Even that little jolt made him shake with joy. Tor’s silent curses filled his head. Emrys moved again, savoring the drag of Tor’s tool inside him. _“I’m well mounted, by lord. Please ride me to the end.”_

“Impudent devil,” Tor murmured. He started thrusting in long, deep movements, shaking Emrys’ body. Every punch of his prick stoked fire inside Emrys and his hand went to his own stand under the drape of his tunic. It smeared his palm with the edge of his seed.

_“Slow,”_ he commanded Tor.

“I can’t!” Tor whined, but his frantic thrusts turned to long rolls that drew the pleasure out like silk on a spindle. Emrys drifted on a tide of bliss, moaning in tandem with Tor as they rocked together.

The rough wood scraped against his hands and he could feel every grain in it. He felt the rain leaking through the slats of the roof. He felt the restless doves in the rafters. He felt his own blood and bone heating gold. Gold ran up his veins. He felt Tor’s hazy, pleasure-drunk mind like deep honey. Tor’s hands on his hips—or were those his hands holding a thin, pale waist? He was in himself and in Tor. Their ecstasy blending together in a potent elixir.

The reverberation of Tor’s sensations rolling through him and his own pleasure feeding into Tor sent them into a frenzy. Tor started slamming into him like a hammer and Emrys gasped, spreading his legs wider. The sound of their flesh slapping together was obscene and overwhelming. The force of Tor’s prick inside him, the force of the fire raging through them both overwhelmed. Everything blanked out in a wash of gold.

Tor’s face mashed into the back of Emrys’ shoulder. He emptied himself with a sob, still thrusting slowly through his release. His heart thudded against Emrys’ back like the beating of hooves.

Gradually, the gold drained away, but when he was able to stand again and face Tor, still leaning against the wall, Tor said, “What happened to your eyes?”

He didn’t know what to say. (_Mating with you makes my magic go wild_._) _But it was not the time to speak of magic. So, he feigned ignorance.

Tor spread his cloak over the driest patch of straw and they wrapped up in it together, like a pair of sleepy pups. Their sweaty limbs tangled together.

“You make me forget myself,” Tor said. He ran his fingers down the length of Emrys’ spine and between his buttocks. His fingers played there, sliding his seed out of Emrys’ hole. “I want to hide away from the world with you.”

Emrys just opened his thighs. He was sore and sensitive there. Tor’s touch sent currents of fresh desire through him. “We have tonight to hide away,” he said, not wanted to think about the inevitable end.

Tor kissed his mouth, hungry and possessive. He kissed his throat. Then he pulled down the collar of Emrys’ tunic and kissed the whorls of the triskelion tattooed under his shoulder.

Emrys arched and gasped, jolting as though stabbed. Tor’s soft kiss should have been a blessing. But a bittersweet seed was planted there and it sank deep roots into the cavity of his chest.

The following day, they reached the outlying fields of Glaverton: wheat and barley rising from the earth in green waves. A passing merchant confirmed that King Cenred and retinue were in residence at the fort. Lance exchanged glances with Tor.

“Well?” Wain asked. “Do we need any more proof?”

“We can’t say he ordered the raids,” El cautioned.

“His men escorted them into our lands!” Percy cried.

“They were leading them through the mountains,” Lance said. “That doesn’t mean they were bound for Camelot.”

“We will gather information,” Tor said. “We can question the townsfolk and the servants of the fort. We’ll find out who Cenred’s been meeting with and if Saxon ships have been sighted on the coast.”

They followed the road through winding hills up to the windswept crag where the fort was perched. The sky was streaked with white clouds that alternately hid and released the sun. Their shadows shifted across the spring grass. Sea birds whirled and screamed.

There, at the crest of the hill, a woman waited. She wore a long wine-red cloak that whipped in the wind, revealing dark breeches and a loose white tunic. Her hair was yellow as a winter field, her eyes black pits in her face.

Tor’s jaw tightened. He reined his horse in and the others did the same.

Leo said, “Morgause with Cenred?” with disbelief in his voice.

“Knights of Camelot,” her voice trumpeted across the space between them. “I have Seen your journey here. You think to slip in the cracks like rats in the night. But we have prepared for your coming.”

Black clouds rolled in from the sea, thick and dark.

“We come in peace, to gather knowledge,” Tor shouted back at her.

“The gore on your swords speaks otherwise,” she called back. “Hear me now! The time for prowling and hiding and daggers in the dark is over. Arthur Pendragon, it is foretold that I shall strike you down and magic shall rise up greater than ever before. Uther shall fall to our power, and then all of Albion. A new age has begun.”

_Arthur Pendragon._ Emrys drew in a shuddering breath. _Artorius, in Latin_. Son of Uther. Prince of Camelot. Emrys’ heart turned to icy rubble in his chest. _Oh, the vagaries of fate. _Above him, the black clouds gathered and the air crackled.

Tor—_Arthur_—unsheathed his sword. His face was fierce with defiance. “Then, strike me down, witch!” He spurred his horse to leap into a gallop. His men followed, drawing their weapons and falling into formation. Emrys’ mare trailed behind, stumbling into a canter.

Lightning streaked across the sky into the witch, and then ricocheted out of her body. It blasted forward, hitting Arthur’s mount square in the chest. The horse screamed, twisted and fell, crushing Arthur as it rolled over him. Shouts and wails rang out from the knights. Emrys felt an invisible crack run through the length his own body. Something huge was torn out of his chest.

Lance fell back, but the others rode on, charging the sorceress.

In the clouds lightning crackled again and the mage raised her hand once more, bringing it down for another strike. Emrys’ sight burned gold. Heat and light roared through him. He thought of a barrier, and then it was there.

As white lighting streaked down to the witch, a golden shell formed around her, trapping the power inside. The streams of incandescent light sparked and burst around her. The witch shrieked, writhing, incinerated by her own power. When the lightning finally sputtered and fell into the earth. The witch lay inside the golden orb, blackened and lifeless. Emrys exhaled hard and the shell faded.

The knights halted their charge and wheeled back around to where Arthur’s horse had fallen. It did not move. Lance was already crouched over Arthur’s crumpled form. His breastplate was cracked in half from the impact of the horse’s body.

Emrys’ mare was already flying to him, as fast as her bony joints could move. He leapt off her back but couldn’t get to Arthur through the press of his men surrounding him. Half of them were weeping openly. All were shaking with terror and grief.

“Let the druid through!” Wain shouted. “Let him help.”

“There’s nothing to be done,” Lance said hoarsely. “Near every bone in his body is crushed and his lung’s pieced too.”

“Let him help!” Wain demanded wildly.

Emrys knelt at Arthur’s side. He saw what Lance said was true. Arthur’s eyes fluttered open. His face was slack with pain. He tried to say something and blood spilled out of his mouth.

_“Quiet,”_ Emrys told him silently. _“Still.”_ His voice flowed through his mind like a clear midday breeze. Around him, the knights were arguing, raging, mourning openly. But all the noise faded out. Arthur—his beloved, broken Tor was there before him. Emrys pulled the two halves of the split chest armor apart and ran the palms of his hands over Arthur’s sternum and his ribcage. _Mend_, he told the bones and sinews and muscles beneath. _Be whole, be strong_.

When the gold swept through him, he closed his eyes and felt his way along the ruined paths. They did not wish to be fragmented. This body was young and brimming with life. It loved Emrys’ magic. Arthur’s blood sang at Emrys’ touch. His bones sighed as they knit together again, finding their rightful place. His ribs, his spine, the cradle of his pelvis, the long shanks of his legs, they all straightened and strengthened at the call of Emrys’ power.

_Be still, be well_, Merlin commanded. And when he opened his eyes and lifted his head, he nearly pitched forward. Every ounce of energy had drained out of him. Yet strangely, he felt more alive than ever. He lay down next to his master and breathed a deep sigh of contentment. The next battle would come later. Now, he slept.

“Druid!” a hand nudged his shoulder, then shook him. He hadn’t rested long; he was still heavy with exhaustion. He opened his eyes grudgingly. Leo loomed over him, light eyes wide and fierce. “Get up. You can’t sleep in a field.”

_That’s all we’ve been doing for weeks,_ Emrys wanted to argue. But he supposed the road to the fort was not the ideal place for slumber. He rolled over reluctantly and saw Arthur there, sitting on the grass beside him, pale but living. He managed a weak smile for Emrys. “We have to get away from the fort.”

Arthur was still wobbly on his feet so El and Lance helped him into the saddle of Lance’s horse and led the beast down the hillside. Emrys could feel the wonder and amazement rising from the knights around him, but he was too tired and empty to care. He had saved the son of his greatest enemy—the man who would take up the rule of Camelot, raised by a monster. He had exposed his magic to heal a prince who saw magic as a threat worthy of death.

Arthur glanced sideways at Emrys_. “Did you slay Morgause?”_ he asked silently.

_“Was that her name?”_ Emrys replied. _“Yes, I burned the sorceress. I thought she’d killed you.”_

_“She had,” _Arthur said_, “or nearly so. I can’t explain to the others how you saved me. They know now that your power remains.”_

_“I thought they might,”_ Emrys said wearily. _“It’s difficult to hide magic when you’re restoring a man crushed by his horse. No herbal poultice can do that.”_

Arthur was silent until they reached the trail down to the cliffs. They followed it down the narrow ridges until they reached a low cave. The horses were picketed on the path outside it. El and Lance propped Arthur against some rocks. Emrys stood swaying in the wind, looking at him with burning eyes. This was the end, he knew. He could not stay here.

“Take a rest,” Wain said. “You look half dead yourself.”

So Emrys wrapped up in Wain’s cloak and huddled next to Arthur. If they killed him in his sleep, at least it would be quick.

When he woke again, the cave was dark and silent. The sea hissed and rumbled far below. Percy stood guard at the entrance, his back a wide shield. The others slept in various positions. Faint moonlight lit the edges of their forms. Emrys found himself memorizing the scene: Wain (Gwaine?) snoring softly against El’s broad shoulder, Lance with his handsome face fallen back against stone, and Leo curled in a tight ball on the floor of the cave, arms tucked to his chest.

And near Emrys, the prince, loose and pliant in sleep, full lips parted. Emrys brushed his fingers up Arthur’s jaw to the underside of his ear.

_“Pendragon,”_ he said, throat thick with hurt.

Arthur’s eyes opened—the blue of the hottest flames. He stared up at Emrys through the darkness. _“Will you kill me now?”_

_“I was about to ask the same of you,”_ Emrys replied with a wry smile. _“Do you think I’d end your life after I saved it?”_

_“My father killed your family.”_ It was cracked and bitter with guilt.

_“You didn’t kill my family,”_ Emrys said. _“You didn’t execute my people. At least, not yet. But in my position now, you would end me, wouldn’t you? I’m raw power—a druid who doesn’t even need to speak spells, entirely capable of great evil. Even now you’re wishing you had left me to die with the slavers.”_

_“No,”_ Arthur said brokenly_. “I could never wish that. I could never hurt you, I told you.”_

_“Even if your father ordered it?”_

Arthur blinked. A tear streaked down his face.

Emrys leaned close, heedless of the others around them. _“You are my destiny,”_ he said, pain searing through him like red-hot iron. “_Yet, I cannot embrace you. I cannot serve a man who fears the very force of my being.” _

Arthur tried to catch his hands and hold him, but Emrys pulled free and rose to his feet. He looked down on the prince, his precious Tor, the sword of bloody Camelot. _“I would have been everything for you, once_.” The words scraped out of him like dull knives. _“Fate will tie us together. But it doesn’t have us yet.”_

Then Emrys turned to the mouth of the cave and ran. He leapt over El’s legs and dodged past Percy’s startled frame. He flew over the edge of the cliff and plummeted.

“No!” Arthur screamed.

And Emrys fell, down and down. He drifted out to the sound of the surf, like a leaf on the wind. And the moonlit waves rose up to him. And he plunged into the sea. The cold water closed over him, salty and sharp. For several moments, he was submerged and suspended without gravity, drifting slowly up. When his head broke the surface and drew air into his lungs, the moon surrounded him with a blanket of light, a mother wrapping her child.

Arthur

As Arthur and his knights return to Camelot, the news comes running before them—black banners and frightened miens. The king is dead. When Uther was walking through the streets, the sword of his guardsman flew from its sheath and lopped off Uther’s head, though no hand wielded it. Some say he’d reaped what he’d sowed, after all the lives he ended thus. Some say it’s proof his persecution of magic was well-founded—look what a witch or warlock can do!

Arthur is numb. Emptiness echoes through him. Even when they set the crown on his head and the palace fills with a roar of cheers, he can only smile hollowly. His nights are sleepless rages, pacing the polished planks of his floors, wondering. Should he hunt Emrys down for killing Uther? Should he hunt Emrys down for leaving him like a fallow field in winter? And what if he finds him and falls to his knees, begging for the touch of Emrys’ hand, like a kicked dog?

He turns himself to his duties, to the running of the kingdom. He lifts the death sentence for magic users, but persecutes them harshly for misusing their powers. He pours money into the farmlands and the roads. He re-organizes the army. He makes a political marriage with a perfectly lovely woman, securing an ally.

Every year he visits the mute woman they took from the slavers and left at the farm. Though she has her tongue, she doesn’t speak. But she seems content there, spinning her wool and weaving at her loom, growing grayer with the years. The father has passed and the boys run the homestead by the ford, now grown into men. They call her “Mother” and give her the place of honor at the rough-hewn table.

And every year, Arthur returns to the ocean, a strange pilgrimage. And he stands on the cliff and looks out at the breaking rollers and the sun on the water or the stretched shadows of the clouds. And Arthur shouts inside his head, a rising chant of hopeless desperation. “_Emrys, Emrys, come to me. Emrys, come to me_.” He has ceased to agonize over what will happen if his pitiful plea is granted. He only thinks_, “Emrys, come to me. Come to me, Emrys.”_

Emrys

Over the sea and far away, in an open courtyard tiled with white and blue mosaics, a fountain pours crystalline water into the hot air. Emrys is lounging on a divan with too many pillows reading a book written in a flowing script. His skin has browned like the shell of a nut.

A man in a turban and spectacles approaches, asks him a question about the book. He responds with his mind, not his mouth. They discuss a mathematical problem for some time, although Emrys hardly understands what they are saying. His magic draws lazy patterns in the streams of the fountain as they speak.

In this land, he is a jinn, but a civilized one. He will grant wishes, if they seem practical. Some of the people tried to worship him at first, but they soon abandoned that idea. A jinn who prefers to eat sugared dates and lounge in the sun is hardly the creature of legends, fiery eyes or not.

He is not happy, but he has a kind of peace, moving from one settlement to another, basking at oases and wandering through bazaars. He carries nothing but his clothes and a beautiful steel dagger ornamented with a single topaz. He has no fear or troubles or strong desires. In every place, he absorbs vast riches of knowledge and coils it inside himself for another day. His magic fills the earth around him for miles and miles. It no longer tires him to use it. Sometimes he wonders if it has limits at all. Perhaps he should fear himself, but he rarely considers it anymore.

He isn’t fleeing, but he is wandering. He is waiting. That chafes him, when he realizes it. He is waiting for fate to yank him back to Arthur. But he will not go of his own accord. Some convoluted plot will arise, forcing them back together. So Emrys waits, and pretends he isn’t waiting. And he fills his days with books and food and long journeys. He meets all sorts of interesting folk and witnesses the vast beauty of the world.

And then, one day, he lifts his head to the wind and hears a voice. It is faint and distant and it drags the old hurts out of him. It twists a cord under his breastbone, wrenches at his insides. He listens and thinks of two youths tangled together under the rush of the cold waves, drifting among bubbling sparks of light. He thinks of his golden Tor in the deep green forest, fingers stained with strawberries, drawing a red line on his skin. He marked him, then gently licked the mark away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And now I want to write a sequel where Morgana leads an uprising of the druids and Merlin goes to Camelot to help Arthur, and the bitterness and sexual tension between the two of them is intensely delicious. Maybe after Nanowrimo and the holidays.


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